


A New Sun

by lonelybrit



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Coda, Episode: s09e03 I'm No Angel, Gen or Pre-Slash, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-27
Updated: 2013-10-27
Packaged: 2017-12-30 16:00:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1020613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lonelybrit/pseuds/lonelybrit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A coda to the episode "I'm No Angel".</p>
<p>It's time for Castiel to take his leave of the Winchesters. Family is family, though, and each has left their mark on the other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A New Sun

**Author's note** : So this is the first time I've written anything in _years_ , who would have thought this would be the ep to blame. I know I am relatively new to all this, so any and all constructive criticism is gratefully received! 

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“You can’t stay here.”

The conversation after that goes as well as Dean expected. He tries to explain things in a way that might soften the blow but winds up making it worse judging by how Cas continues to silently break apart in front of him.

Eventually there is a pause. Cas has crumpled the burrito wrapping into a small ball that he now carefully places on the table, his gaze fixed on something hidden beyond the folds and creases.

“I remember,” he says in a low tone, “how infuriating I used to find you. Back when we first met. I was an angel of god, a warrior, and my orders were clear. The right path seemed so… easy.” A small frown flickers across his face which he keeps turned away from Dean. “I could see what the right, logical course of action was. To do anything else was nonsensical. It would frustrate me that despite that, you would always fight to do something different. You humans let emotion rule you even if the decisions you took flew in the face of everything right and sane.”

Finally Cas looks up and Dean feels the stone lodged in his stomach grow heavier at just how tired, how resigned that gaze is. He wishes more than anything there was something he could say, but every possibility that comes to mind is quickly followed by another reason as to why silence remains best. If there’s anyone who deserves full brutal honesty, it’s Cas. Because frankly isn’t lack of it what’s caused so much carnage in the past. And yet…

And yet. Dean looks back at the man who next to Sammy and Kevin, who despite all the betrayals and broken bones, remains one of the few souls on this planet who can make him feel like he has a home. Somewhere he can rightfully belong.

“Cas, you know if there was any other way-”

“I know,” Cas says shortly. His gaze drops again to somewhere on Dean’s left shoulder. “I am human now, Dean. I cannot protect you or Sam the way I could before. You are right; it is dangerous for everyone for me to remain here. I just thought that doing the right thing, knowing it’s the right thing, would feel better. Would feel good.” He stops and Dean can tell he is gathering himself to leave. “I think perhaps I understand now more than ever why you fought against me and heaven back then.”

“At least stay tonight,” Dean blurts out, and dammit he can’t help that note of panic in his voice as Cas gets to his feet. “Just tonight, Cas. Give us some time to set things up for you. I can call Garth, someone, we’ll find you someplace safe.” 

Cas’ rigid stance softens a little and he gives that familiar, quizzical look, head tilted slightly and looking almost like he might smile.

I prayed to you, Dean thinks, and you used to hear me. The realisation that even that tie between them is now gone crushes down on him all over again. How could he tell Cas the truth. I prayed, and you didn’t answer, so I prayed to someone else and they came. They helped. And now they hold all the cards. How could he say that and not make Cas feel worse. Feel like Dean was rubbing his face in the fact he was no longer full of angelic grace.

“This is difficult for you,” Cas observes. “This is the right thing to do, Dean. But if it will make you feel better, then yes, I will stay tonight.”

Cas gives Dean a small nod, the seal on his decision, and Dean knows the conversation is over. Dean nods back, shifts off the table to stand fully on his feet as Cas moves past him in the direction of the sleeping quarters. 

Odd to think that barely an hour ago Dean was squabbling with Sam over whether they should assign a room to Cas while he was cleaning up in the shower, or whether Cas should be allowed to choose for himself. (Sam had been all for letting Cas pick for himself; Dean, who was clearly right even if he eventually lost the argument, insisted that he already knew the perfect room for Cas with plentiful shelves and a stained glass lampshade that reminded him of sunbeams and chapels.) Barely an hour ago Dean was mentally planning the commentary for the grand tour he and Cas would take around the bunker. Sure Cas had been here before, but this time was different. This time was supposed to be about Cas coming home. 

He can hear the quiet fall of Cas’ footsteps moving away, the soft change as they go from carpet to tiles.

Dean wonders which room Cas will go to, knowing that whichever one it is, he will keep it ready for when Cas comes back. Because when this is done, Dean is getting him back, properly this time. This is only, this has to be only, please, temporary.

“Cas,” Dean begins, looking at the empty chair Cas vacated. “I…”

He hears Cas’ steps pause behind him. But what can he say. I’m sorry, I hate doing this, I wish I could talk to you about all this.

He turns round and Cas is standing patiently in his new, clean, so very human, clothes.

“I’m really glad you’re ok,” is all Dean can manage.

He knows it’s not enough.

*~*~*~*

It is technically the morning, but early enough to still be dark. Dean knows the stars will still be visible and the air cold. He blinks at the shadowed wall, careful to remain still while his senses catch-up on what has woken him. Then he hears it. The low murmur of voices.

It doesn’t take an Einstein to realise what is going on, and in any case, he would recognise those two voices anywhere.

The air is cool as he slips from his room, his skin tingling as all the hairs rise in protest at the loss of warmth. 

“Please, Cas, at least wait until Dean’s awake. I don’t understand why you think-”

Dean’s heart clenches at the hurt in Sammy’s voice. He knows Sammy won’t understand and had been selfishly grateful that his brother was already asleep by the time Cas and Dean followed. He briefly wonders what Sam thinks is going on, what Cas has told him.

“Sam,” Cas interrupts firmly and even though Dean can’t see him, Dean recognises that tone and knows the stubborn set that will be in his shoulders. “The angels will not have stopped hunting me. They have a purpose and believe me I remember how single-minded that can make you. Dean is right, I cannot risk leading them to you.”

“Dean?” Sam sounds confused. 

Dean settles against the wall in a lightless corner. He still can’t see them, but he can picture them as they stand at the foot of the stairway leading to the bunker’s exit. He wonders if Cas is going just as they found him or whether he took the time to pack something, anything. He can picture Sam, probably with a hand on Cas’ shoulder as if to tether him here, can see Sam’s puppy eyes of distress.

“Did Dean say that?” Sam asks, and he sounds so disbelieving of the idea that Dean could cry. “I’m sure you misunderstood, Cas. You, me, Dean, Kevin. We’re family. If something’s coming then we face it together.” There’s a pause, as if Sam is waiting for some response, some glimmer of agreement. Whatever he’s waiting for, it clearly doesn’t come because when he speaks again, he sounds more desperate. “Come on, Cas! We’ve stood against bigger things than this. And safer or not, do you think Dean is going to be happy knowing that you’re out there on your own.”

“You are a good man, Sam Winchester,” Cas says, unbearably sincere, “and a good friend. Though I honestly do not know that I deserve it, I have done you much harm over the years.”

Sam makes a noise like he’s about to protest, but stops as if Cas has thrown up a hand forcing silence.

“You underwent the trials, Sam, and even if you think you are well, they will have taken their toll. You are not in a state to face down what is chasing me. And I could not forgive myself if something happened to you. There is little left in my power now, but I can do this. And if it will keep you and the others safe, then I will do it.”

Dean wants to rage at how Cas is starting to sound like he actually believes this. This time Sam remains quiet and there is the sound Dean recognises of a heavy knapsack being picked-up and slung snugly over the shoulder. The sound of goodbye.

“Will you at least call to say you’re ok?” Sam asks quietly, defeated in the face of Cas’ resolution. In the face of what Dean has brought upon them. “I still think that Garth-”

“No, Sam,” Cas says, gently but with that familiar touch of immovable steel. “If this is to work then there needs to be as little as possible to connect my world with yours. I’ve kept the phone like you asked, I will call, like you asked, but I cannot risk more than that.”

The silence continues and Dean knows Sam will be doing that remarkable trick where he manages to curl up into something small and vulnerable despite being taller than any sane individual has a right to be.

When Cas speaks again, it’s more gentle, confirming that Sam is indeed looking pitiful. “I am sorry, Sam. The last thing I wanted was to cause you more distress.”

“I wish you would stay,” Sam says simply.

“I wish I could too.”

The cold of the floor has numbed Dean’s feet and there’s a horrible deadness, a knot that seems to have lodged somewhere between his heart and his stomach. The pressure of it builds, making it hard to swallow or indeed breathe. He can feel his face crumple out of his control and in the darkness is glad no-one can see how he has to briefly press his hand over his mouth to rein it all back. 

The unmistakable sound of the bunker door quietly locking shut brings the world back into focus. A wild feeling of something too big for him unravels and he breaks from the shadows, skidding out into the middle of the room.

He is unsurprised to be greeted by two pinpricked flares of unworldly blue as Ezekiel turns to face him in the gloom.

For two heartbeats they face each other. 

“If they hurt one hair on his head,” Dean begins, and stops because despite the deathly coldness of his voice it is all he can manage in this new world of his making.

“Did you ever think this might be safer for him, too,” Ezekiel says calmly, his silhouette still, unyielding. “The reapers were following you and Sam for a reason, Dean.”

I don’t care, Dean wants to say, and then wonders if perhaps he did say it aloud because Ezekiel sighs as if disappointed.

“Go to bed, Dean. Sam doesn’t know you were listening, it will be easier to keep it that way.”

Dean looks up at the iron portal to the dawning day outside. The Men of Letters made this place well, not even the smallest mote of sunlight marks the door that Cas left through. He wonders where Cas will go, how he will travel, if he will hate Dean when they find a way to bring him home. 

Despite himself, he finds himself praying. Please, Cas, please stay safe, please stay unfound. Please wait for me.

*~*~*~*

The sky is grey and cold, brightening into streaks of warmer pinks and gold as the sun rises behind veils of clouds.

A man stands close to an unremarkable looking metal door set into the side of a bank, studying a map he holds carefully in front of him. As the sun continues to rise, he folds it away and starts walking with purpose towards to an unknown, decided destination. He doesn’t look back.

If an angel with compassion was watching, they would see nothing more than a normal, simple human. A beating heart in a mortal web of flesh and bones. They would see the warm affection that cocoons him, the love and prayers impressed into his skin, how it lights him. If they wanted to they could decipher the fingerprints of his unseen family hidden amongst the folds of clothing pressed upon him, the tenderness caught amongst the packets of food and fluids he carries. They could read the unspoken claim, the warning embodied in the knives, holy water and other protective icons tucked around him. If an angel was so inclined to notice these human prayers they would read ‘Have a care. This one is not alone.’ They would see the tie, the bond between the man as he walks and the souls waiting for him behind that now distant metal door. The tie lengthens as he moves away, stretches, thins. As he passes from sight, the connection wavers, trembles, human hearts are so fragile after all. But if anyone was watching, they would see that as the sun continues to climb, the connection remains unbroken.


End file.
